Playing a phonograph record of a windy morning
you gay   you imitation summer
                           let’s see you slice up the Park
in green from the lake drawn bright in silver salt
while the little girl playing (in iodine and pink)
tosses her crumbs and they all rise to catch
lifting up their white and saying Quack.

O you pastoral lighting what are you getting away with?
Wound-up lovers    fidgeting balloons    and a popsicle man
running up the road on the first day of spring.
And the baby carriages whose nurses with flat heels
(for sufferance is the badge of all their tribe)
mark turning sunlight on far avenues
etch beacons on the grass. You strenuous baby
rushing up to the wooden horses
with their stiff necks, their eyes,
and all their music!

Fountains!   sheepfolds!   merry-go-round!
The seal that barking slips Pacifics dark-
diving into his well until up! with a fish!
The tiglon resembling his Siberian sire,
ice-cream and terraces and twelve o’clock.
O mister with the attractive moustache,
          How does it happen to be you?
Mademoiselle   in    cinnamon,   zoo,
                Hello,   hello.